


Cara Cara: A California Love Story

by pajamabees



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, middle aged men falling in love, might change it to rated M later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 10:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18569878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pajamabees/pseuds/pajamabees
Summary: Shiro's spent the majority of his life working, fighting a disease, and caring for a 14-year-old kid since he was 24. Now he's in his 30s--still working, still housing his adopted younger bother, but his right arm is gone, along with the disease. It's time for him to start living now that he knows he has a life to live, and it all starts to change for the better when he meets a stranger at a snowball stand.





	Cara Cara: A California Love Story

**Author's Note:**

> I know this has basically the same summary as my That's So 80's series, but I decided to try and make a chapter fic out of it...tell me what you guys think, and if I should just stick with drabbles for the series or if you want to see a full blown chapter fic of these dorks falling in love. Comments are always appreciated <3 your feedback would help motivate me to continue this story!

The orange trees were beginning to blossom. Cara Cara Navels—that’s what they were called. A deep orange on the outside, and reddish on the inside. Kind of like a grapefruit. They were sweeter than most, and less acidic, with a flavor difficult to describe. Like any other orange, it was tangy, but with a hint of cherry and maybe…rose? Shiro wasn’t sure. He had never eaten a rose before, nor would he ever, but the navel did leave a slight perfume aftertaste so he supposed that was what a rose would taste like.

Nevertheless, the fruit trees were blooming, and his walk from the downtown Physical Therapy Center to the shoreline boardwalk was filled with them. Rows and rows of them littered the public parks, as well as the backyards of most neighborhoods. Shiro also saw a few lime trees here and there, but for the most part they were drowned out by endless Cara Cara Navels. Judging from the excessive amount, one would think the fruits were native to California—but no. The unique oranges were introduced to the sunny state only half a decade ago.

And Shiro didn’t really care for them. After his weekly session, his therapist suggested he go for a nice walk “because it’s a beautiful day, and the orange trees are starting to sprout!”

She was trying to do her job—Shiro must have looked like he needed a walk anyway—and she was also a Cara Cara enthusiast. She just really loved them for reasons Shiro didn’t care to understand, and he guessed she was trying to pass that passion onto him.

It didn’t work, though. He was just as enthusiastic about the fruits as any other passerby, and he only went on the walk because he couldn’t drive with one hand just yet and there was a snowball stand he passed on his way to the clinic. If Dr. Ongaro thought he needed a walk due to him spacing out the entire session, it was because Shiro was thinking about that snowball stand.

And as he stepped in line, a little sweaty from the walk, he wondered if he should just save his money for something else. Granted, it was only a dollar, but he had learned in the past two years that a dollar could go a long way. Maybe it was best to buy a burger from the McDonald’s right around the corner or something—

Oh. Right. He was supposed to be vegetarian now. Well either way, even an apple was probably better than ice. Or an orange. A snowball was just ice and syrup—it was more like a drink than anything else. Something with more substance would probably fill him up more.

But he really wanted a snowball, damnit, and this stand allowed its customers to add their own syrups and mix flavors together with the several different levers on the side of the truck.

And that’s exactly what Shiro did. He ordered a regular cone of ice and waited for a gentleman and his daughter to finish flavoring their own cones before walking over to the small cutout.

He knew what he wanted—blue raspberry and lemon. It was something he picked up years ago, still in college and fooling around with his friends. They decided to experiment with the flavors—because why not—and Shiro believed he found the best combination. The lip-puckering sourness of the lemon mixed wonderfully with the sweet and unique flavor of the blue raspberry, and together, it turned the ice a cool sea green color, and Shiro was excited for the sugary zest to wash over his tongue and trigger his taste buds. Screw long walks. Screw Cara Cara Navels and the California scenery. Shiro just needed a goddamn snowball to lift his depression, if only for a moment.

But as he stared at the labels, snow cone in hand—his only hand—he noticed a problem. The nub of his shoulder twitched, as well as his right eyelid. Of course.

Now angry and frustrated, he stared at the levers, then his cone, then the levers again. Maybe if he had a cup instead of a cone with a pointed bottom, he could simply just place it on the rack underneath the designated labels, and then pull the levers with his one and only hand. But a cone was easier to eat for someone like him, and he didn’t even think about how he would pour syrup over it. He should have just ordered a flavored cone, then he wouldn’t have to worry about this. Why was he so stupid? How could he forget that he only had one arm now?

He felt self-conscious, suddenly. Overwhelmed, as if everyone was staring at him and his missing arm. He wanted to throw the snow cone at the truck, despite having been so excited for it just seconds ago. He wondered if maybe he should just march back to the clinic and hide there until he—

“Do you want some help?”

Shiro jolted, almost squeezing the life out of his snow cone. He swiftly turned and was met with a man standing beside him, holding a snowball of his own. He had a neutral expression on his face as he stared at Shiro through a pair of silver eyeglasses.

“Oh,” Shiro said, and he hastily backed away from the cutout. “Sorry. Do you need to use it?”

The stranger shook his head and held up his cone. It was the color of a peach, with a few swirls of red and yellow-orange in places where the colors had not yet mixed together. “No, I ordered off the menu. You were just standing there for a while, so I thought….” Shiro must have had a blank expression on his face, because the man suddenly paused and shook his head again, smiling apologetically. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“No, no! It’s okay, I was just….” Looking back at the different rows of sugary syrup, Shiro cringed. He must be holding up the line. “Yeah, I think I need some help. Do you mind…?”

“Of course not. Which one do you want?”

And while Shiro held his snow cone, the man lifted the knob until Shiro told him when. The entire time Shiro was cursing himself and wondered if his face was turning red out of embarrassment. It probably was.

“You mix them?” The stranger asked when Shiro gestured towards the blue raspberry after he felt he had enough lemon.

Shiro shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Interesting combination. Is it good?”

Before answering, Shiro signaled that he was done and pulled his cone away after the man let go of the lever. “I think it’s good. It’s the only snowball flavor I’ll ever eat, to be honest.” As they walked away from the small cutout so others could use it, Shiro gestured towards the stranger’s own snowball. “What is yours?”

“Strawberry mango.” The man’s face stretched into a cheeky grin. “It’s the best.”

“I think my little brother likes that.”

“Haha, yeah?”

Without even thinking, Shiro settled at a stand-up table, the stranger following suite. He thought nothing of it, as the conversation was light and casual and Dr. Ongaro said he should make an effort to be more social, anyway. He’d tried countless times before, but he found it to be rather awkward. He felt as if everyone was always looking at him weird, and only wanted to talk to get on his good side and ask about his arm. It wasn’t like the story was that interesting.

But this stranger was okay. He was cordial and held eye contact, occasionally turning to look towards the ocean and munch on his snowball. The second time he did it, Shiro took the time to get a good look at him.

Brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin. He just seemed like a normal dude who enjoyed a conversation here and there. And his choice of style was interesting: a light and airy shirt the color of his snow cone, tucked into a pair of faded green capris. Californian. For some reason though, Shiro couldn’t stop staring at his fingers. They were very delicate-looking despite how strong the man’s forearms appeared to be.

And they talked for a while, about random things strangers typically talked about. The weather, politics, and how long they had been in Long Beach—apparently the man had just moved, while Shiro’s been here his whole life. Shiro was surprised to learn that the man was the same age as him—30 years old—and for a little bit they talked about what teenagers were up to these days and compared it to what they used to do as teens. The man had a lot of funny stories to tell, but Shiro didn’t mind hearing them. He liked to laugh, and the man had a very jovial laugh, too. It kind of reminded Shiro of the wind chimes his late grandmother always had on her front porch.

The last time the stranger stared at the ocean, Shiro followed his gaze and was surprised to see that the sun was beginning to set. Their snow cones have since been gone and thrown away, and only a few people and their children waited in line for a last-minute snowball before it closed up shop. It was mostly quiet, except for the light sea-breeze and the call of seagulls flying around the boardwalk.

The man must have noticed how late it was getting as well, and they both shared soft smiles.

“It’s getting kinda late,” Shiro said.

“Yeah,” the man said back, and then he paused for a second before leaning over the table and giving Shiro what he could only describe as ‘the Parent’s Look.’ “Didn’t you mention a little brother? He’s not home alone, is he?”

Taken back by the question, and the accusation, Shiro sputtered. “What? No! Well, yes. Maybe? But he’s a college kid—!”

“I’m only pulling your strings, big guy,” the man said with that twinkling laugh, and for some reason the endearment made him blush. And then the stranger pushed away from the table. “You’re right though—it is getting late. It’s probably best I get going.”

Shiro nodded, also pushing himself from the table. “Same. And thanks for helping me out earlier. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. What’s your name, by the way?”

“Takashi,” Shiro said, but out of habit he added: “But people usually just call me Shiro.”

The man was silent for a moment, as if he was contemplating something. He then gave Shiro a once over and winked. “Okay Takashi,” he said, and Shiro was a little bit shocked—it had been a while since anyone but his doctors called him by his first name. “It was nice meeting you.”

With that, he waved and turned on his heel, walking in the direction opposite of where Shiro had to go. But before he could get too far, Shiro suddenly remembered something.

“Wait!” he called out, and the man swiveled back around. “You didn’t tell me _your_ name.”

The stranger smiled. “Adam.”

And then he finally walked away.

“Adam,” Shiro murmured. A normal name. He didn’t really care for it—he knew an Adam in high school, a pretty boring dude. But the name didn’t sound so boring on the stranger. It kinda fit, in a way, but Shiro didn’t bother thinking too much about it. He had a long walk ahead of him, so he pushed the nice conversation he had with the man and the man in general to the back of his mind.

On his trek home, he passed a few strawberry bushes, and the Cara Cara Navels kind of looked like mangoes under the pink and orange California sky.  


End file.
